n ^^^N* : 3 » * S¥^;»S^«^^^^^»fc.:« ^\iS»5«««!S«SS!iSS>)«!S^^ (' ■ ;W^.v^?^-^." 1 ^™p ^ lli R i i 1 M LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf -...k3.. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Edited by T. G. LaMOILLE, Editor of "The Dixnne Life in Song^,!,' Etc. CHICAGO: Rhodes & McClurb / Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, By J. B. McCluue & R. S. Rhodes, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. THE POET'S STAR-TUNNED HARP TO SWEEP. E. B. Browning. V ^HERE ARE KN THIS LOUD STUNNING TIDE OF HUMAN CARE AND CRIME, WITH WHOM THE MELODIES ABIDE OF THE EVERLASTING CHIME; WHO CARRY MUSIC IN THEIR HEART THROUGH DUSKY LANE AND WRANGLING MART, PLYING THEIR DAILY TOIL WITH BUSIER FEET, BECAUSE THEIR SECRET SOULS A HOLY STRAIN REPEAT. J. Keble. CONTENTS. A Beautiful Legend 126 A Christian Hymn. — Alfred Dommett 368 A Christmas Hymn. — Edmund H. Sears 339 A Love Song. — A. P. Graves 246 A Song ot Home.— Emily C H. Miller 216 A Woman's Love Dream. — Nettie P Houston 172 A Hundred Years form Now. — Mrs. Ford {Una.) 211 A Vfish.—S. Rogers 266 A Free Show. — Wyoming Kit 105 A Farewell 86 A Flower for the Dead 381 A Singing Lesson. — Jean Ingelow 383 A Little Word ..323 A Petition to Time. — B. Cornwall 43 A Portrait 100 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. — A. Cunningham 40 A Musical Instrument. — E. B. Broiv ning 133 An Angel in the House. — L. Hxmt 28 A Game Two Can Play 301 A Farewell. — Charles Kingshy 342 Advice to a young man. — Ben Johnson 330 At Che&s.—SallieA. Brock 207 At a Solemn Music. — John Milton --- 275 Annie and Willie's Prayer. — Mrs. S. P.Sno2v 296 And Thou art Dead.— .B(/ro«. - 327 Antony and Cleopatra. — Gen. W. H. Lytle 287 Angel Visits. — Mrs Hemans 363 After-Life of the Poet's Work.— Jo/m Keats 379 Album Verses. — Various Authors -. -395 After the Storm. — Mrs. Bishoj) Thompson - .365 Beautiful ThmgB.— Ellen P. Allerton 26 Beyond. — Henry Burton 67 Bed - 88 Bingen on the Rhine. — Mrs. Norton - - 149 Bugle Song. — A. Tennyson 177 Beauty : A Sonnet.— PF. Shakspere - -178 (vii.) Vm CONTENTS. BeautiinllLanda.— Mrs. Ellen H. Gates - * 235 Bishop Ken's Doxology _ 308 Byron's Finest Image 356 Brown Lark and Blackbird 336 Comfort 49 Christmas Chimes. — Various Authors 213 Counsel.— J/ar^/ E. W. Sherwood 378 Contrasts 391 Drifting.— CaKsto L. Grant 85 Dead. — Alma Lattin ., 124 David's Lament over Absalom.— iV. P. Willis 258 Death's First Day. — Byron 347 Elegy Written in a Country Church Yavdi.— Thomas Gray 55 Example. — ./ Eeble 70 Extracts from Burns.-i^. (?. i?aZ/ecfc 102 Extracts from " L' Allegro."— J. Milton 143 Extracts from " Criticism."—^. Pope 155 Evening. — Lord Byron • 335 Farewell to My Harp 400 Father, What'er of Earthly Bliss.— 4nna 5'feeZe 130 Friendship. — W. Shakspere^.. -.195 Faith. — Frances Anne Kemhle.. 87 From the Castle of Indolence.— J. Thompson 289 Gillyflowers 89 God's Ways 123 God Knoweth. — Mrs. Mary G. Brainard 161 Gone Before 341 Hymn of Nature.— TF. O. B. Peabody 315 Inward Music. — J. Keble ill I'd Mourn the Hopes.— Tom Moore 78 I Saw Thee Weep. — George G. Byron - 824 liindred Hearts. — Mrs. Hemans 357 Lead, Kiadly Light. — J. H. Newman 35 Little Blown Hands. — Mary H. Krout 51 Love's Philosophy.— P. B. Shelley 114 Light and Darkness 241 Lines Written While Boat Sailing at Evening. — W. Words- worth 267 CONTENTS. ix Lines Written in an Album. — Byron ... .394 Majesty of Godi.— Thomas Sternhold 233 Memories. — Barry Cornivall 160 My Bride that Is to Be.— /. W.Riley 96 My Little Boy that Died. — Dinah Mtdoch-Craik 280 Maiden and Butterfly 31 My Angel, — Emily Huntington Miller - .169 Napoleon at Rest. — John Pierpont 325 Nature's.— Jo7m G. Whittier 231 Night and Death.— J". .Btoico White 269 New Poem by Lord Byron 273 Never Despair. — William C. Richards 311 "No, Not More Welcome."— 2'om il/ore 234 Never Failed Us 224 Ode to Evening.— W. CoZZtns 293 Ode to the Itark.—J. Hogg 165 Ode to the Brave.— TF. CoZ^ms 187 Our Own. — Mrs. M. E Sangster 75 Our Infant in Heaven 197 Ou the Death of J. R. Drake.— i^. G. Halleck 252 Over the River. — Nancie A. W. Priest 385 Parting - 125 Patriotism.— Sir W.Scott 167 Preface xiii Questions. — Mrs. Rebecca N. Hazard 371 Questions and Answers. — Goethe 393 Rest 63 Rock Me to Sleep, Mother.— jE. A. Allen {Florence Percy) 185 Rnia on tho Roof. — Coates Kinney 304 Revenge of Injuries. — Lady Elizabeth Carew. .319 Sabbath Morning Thought?.— £'. P. Brothwell 181 Sad— A Short Tale in Short AVords.— Pr. S.F... 82 " Sometime, We Bay, and Turn our Eyes " 66 Sunset with the Clouds Ill Song of Lightning.— Geo. W. Cutter 115 gong on May Morning. — J. Milton 168 Son,? of the Pioneers.— TFm. D. Gallagher .353 Songs.— ir. ShaJcspere 225 Sometime. — Mrs. Mary Riley Smith 61 X CONTENTS. Sonnet on his Blindness. — J Milton 152 Spring.— iV. P. Willis 250 She Walks in Beauty. — Byron 310 Saturday Afternoon. — N. P. Willis .331 Serenade. — Edward Coate Pinkney 343 The Baby.— Changed from the Scotch 270 The Bright Side.— Mrs. M. A. Kidder 47 The Mother's Charge - 46 The Soldier's Dream. — T. Campbell 45 The Two Ages.— iT. S. Lezgr/i ----- 36 The Master's Touch.—//. Bonar 24 The King of Denmark's Kide. — Mrs. Norton 19 The Poet's Song. — A. Tennyson 17 The Whistler 18 The Rose.- -E. Waller 29 The Valley of Silence. — Father Ryan 64 The Blue and the Gray.— i^. M. Finch 73 The Cup Bearer. — Emelie Clare 76 The Old Church Bell.— TF. fl". Sparks 80 The Brook. — A. Tennyson 93 The Nativity.— J. Milton 103 The Youth Who Played Before He Looked 119 The Two Villages.— 22ose Terry Cooke 120 The Lover. — C. Patmore 122 The Dying Gladiator. — Lord Byron 135 The Teacher's Dream. — W.H. Venahle 136 The Meeting of the Waters.— Tom ilioore 140 The Lost Chord. — Adelaide A. Proctor 141 The Bivouac of the Dead.— T. OHara. 189 The True Poet. — From Bailey's Festus --.192 The Finest English Epigram.- £>r. Doddridge 196 "The Precious Gift of Song."— lZ?ss CMtwood 203 The Shell— .4. Tennyson 209 The Bridge.— //e?ir?/ W. Longfelloiv 221 The Sabbath of the Soul.— 3irs. Barbauld 228 The Bower of Bliss— £". Spenser 229 The Free Mind : A Sonnet.— 31. L. Garrison 242 The Pride of Battery B -- 243 The Source of Happiness.— Co/'tos Wilcox 247 The Mysterious Music of Ocean 248 The Winged Worshippers.— C/i«rZes Spragne 261 CONTENTS. XI The Isle of the Long Ago.— B. 2^. Ta^Zor 263 The Dying Wife.— i?. .V. T 271 The Song of Steam.— Gt;orgfe W. Gutter - 277 The Departure of the Swallow.— W^m. Hoivitt 220 The Burial of Moses.— 3irs. C. F. Alexander 282 The Old Cottage Clock 321 The Evening Cloud.— Jo/m WHson 291 The Alpine Flowers.— ilirs. L. //. /SigoMr/iei/ 333 The Old Farm Gate.— ^'ttgefte /. Hall 351 The Water Lilly.— illrs. Hemcms 359 The Destruction of Sennacherib.— i?;/ron '^^ The Sacred Kavp.— Mrs. Hemans-..- 372 The Silent ChMren.— Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 375 The Everlasting Memovial—Horatius Bonar 387 The Farewell to My Harm.— rom Jlf oore *00 The Flowers' Year The Old Canoe.— -E?m7(/ i2. Page ^^ The Beautiful City.— /. PF. i2i7e^ °° The Touches of Her Hands.—/. W. Riley ** The Child of a King. -Hattie E. Buell - ^^ Two Views of Living.- lord Byroji ; Mrs. Barbauld 25 To Seneca Lake.— J. C. PercimtZ - ^^ Tired.— lfr.s. Hele)i Burnside - " Three Characteristic Epitaphs Two Pictures.- lifanaji Douglas - Till Death Us Part.— I>ea?iStoHie?/ • "'" To the Mocking Bird.-P. S-. Wilde JJ^ Two Lovers.— G'eorge ^Zioi ' They Went a Fishing ^54 Thanatopsis.— TF. C. Bryant " To the Lady Anne Hamilton.- TF. R. Spenser - ^^ There Comes a Time „„^ There Be None of Beauty's Daughters.-P^ron <^^ To the Organ.— C. P. W. To the Evening Wind.-TF. C. Bryant ^^^ Things of Beauty.— /o7m Xeafc Through Night to Light.-A. Laighton ^^- Thy Voice.— P. B. Marston 33 Unheed Psalms 0% Under Milton's Picture.— /o/in Dryden ^-^ XU CONTENTS. Vital Spark of Heavenly Flame. — A.Pope 307 Weary, Lonely, Eestless, 'H.om.eless.— Father Ryan - 38 Who Has Robbed the Ocean Cave ?~Jo}m Shaw 99 " When to the Sessions." — W. Shaksjoere 188 Woman.— £•. 5. Barret - 199 Which Shall It Be?-£. A. Allen -204 "When the Song's Gone"---- ---- 218 Woman's Voice. — Edwin Arnold 237 We Shall 'Knovf.^ Annie Herbert - 239 We Have Seen His Star .- - 370 Who Will Care? -.268 What is Noble ?~Charles Swain - 317 Wyoming. — Fitz-Greene Halleek -.- 344 With the Stream -..- 303 You Remember It, Don't You?— T/ios. H. Bayley 318 LIST OF AUTHORS, Alexander 282 Allen 204 Allerton 26 Arnold - 237 Bailey - 192-318 Barbanld 25-228 Barret - 199 Bonar.-.. ...- 24-387 Brainard 161 Brock 207 Browning 133 Brothwell . 181 Bryant 213.254 Buell 200 Burnside — - 32 Burton 67 Byron-- 135-273-306-310-324-327 335-347-361-394. Campbell 45 Carew- 319 Chitwood 203 Clare 76 Collins 187-293 Cooke 120 Cornwall 160 Craik - 280 Cutter 115-277 Cunningham 40 Doddridge 196 Dommett 368 Douglass 101 Dryden 236 Eliot 153 Marston Finck 73 Ford ----211-242 Gallagher-- 353 Garrison 242 Gates --- 235 Goethe 393 Gray -.. 55 Graves 246 Grant - 85 Hall 351 Halleck 102-252-344 Herbert - 239 Hemans 357-359-363-372 Houston 172 Howitt.- 220 Hazard 371 Hogg 165 Hunt 28 Johnson 330 Keble iii-70 Keats 379-389 Kemble 87 Kidder.- 47 Kinney- 304 Kingsley 342 Krout 51 "Kit".. Laighton 392 Leigh 36 Longfellow. 221 Lytle 287 292 [xiii.) LIST OP AUTHORS. Miller 169-216 Hilton 103-143-152-168-27O Moore 78-140-234-400 Newman 35 Norton 19-149 O'Hara 189 Page 285 Patmore 122 Peabody 315 Percy 185 Percival 23 Pinkney 343 Pierpont 325 Pope 159-307 Phelps 375 Priest 385 Proctor 14j Richards 311 Riley 68-96 Rogers 266 Ryan 38 Sangster 75 Scott 167 Sears 339 Shakspere 178-188-195-225 Shaw 99 Sherwood 378 Shelly 114 Sigourney 333 Snowe 296 Spenser 229-260 Sprague 261 Swain 317 Sparks - 80 Stanley 107 Sternhold 233 Steele 130 Taylor 263 Tennyson 17-93-177-209 Thompson 289-365 "Una" - 211 Waller 29 Whittier 231 White 269 Willis 331-258 Wilcox 247 Wilson - 291 Wordsworth 267 Wilde 113 Venable 136 ILLUSTRATIONS. Bay of Naples ieontispiece. "On Thy Fair Bosom Waveless Stream" 22 "Touch us Gently, Time" 42 "No Children Eun to Lisp their Sire's Eeturn" 54 "No More Shall the War Cry Sever" 72 The First Reporter 92 " A Shadowy Landscape Dipped in Gold" -- 110 "As a Reed with the Reeds of the River" ^ 132 Bingen on the Rhine 148 Musical Cherub Soar Singing Away 164 Minnehaha Falls. "And the Cataract Leaps in Glory" 176 Mother Come Back from the Echoless Shore - - - 184 Prairie Songsters. 202 " Light on Thy Hillg, Jerusalem !" 338 The Old Farm Gate - -3l0 " Awe-Btruck the Silent Children Hear 374 (XV.) X GEMS OF POETRY. THE POET'S SONG. A. TENNYSON. HE rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He passed by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun. And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody low and sweet, That made the wild swan pause in her cloud. And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared with his foot on the prey. And the nightingale thought, " I have sung many songs. But never a one so gay. For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away." THE WHISTLER. "You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart who stood, AVhile he sat on a corn-sheaf at daylight's dedine — " You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood; I wish that Danish boy's whistle was mine." " And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, "While an arch smile played over her beautiful face, " I would blow it," he answered, " and then my fair maid Would fly to my side and there take her place." " Is that all you wish for ? That may be yours Without any magic," the fair maiden cried ; " A favor so light, one's good nature secures," And she playfully seated herself by his side. " I would blow it again," said the youth, " and a charm Would work so that not even modesty's cheek Would be able to keep from my neck your fine arm ! " She smiled as she laid her fair arm 'round his neck. " Yet once more would I blow, and. the magic divine Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss — You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine, And your lips stealing past would give me a kiss." The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee — " What a fool of youi'self with a whistle you'd make; For only consider how silly 'twould be To sit there and whistle for — what you might take." 18 — Northwestern Agriculturist. THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. MRS. NORTON. ORD was brought to the Danish king (Hm-ry!) That the love of his heart lay suifering And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (O ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown- jewels of ruby and pearl; And his Rose of the Isles is dying! Thirty nobles saddled with speed ! (Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (O ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank: Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the King rode first, For his rose of the Isles lay dying! His nobles are beateu, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone ; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child; 19 20 GEMS or POETRY. Wan was the face that answering smiled; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the King rode in Where his Kose of the Isles lay dying! The King blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence!) No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the King from that weary ride; For dead, in the light of the dawning day. The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying ! The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary. The King returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eying, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck: " O steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying! " ** On thy fair bosom, waveless stream. 82 TO SENECA LAKE. J. G. PEKCIVAL. N thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail. And round his breast the ripples break, As do-vvn he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream. The dipping paddle echoes far. And flashes in the moonlight gleam. And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north wind, heave their foam. And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side ! At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below, And sAvift she cuts, at highest noon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, O, I could ever sweep the oar. When early birds at morning wake. And evening tells us toil is o'er ! V THE MASTER'S TOUCH. \V^ y^V/:A4}y^^^ -^^ 'e^J^. .-^'^■■-s^:y.AO^^^ £f\£^ H. BONAE. N the still air the music lies unheard; In the rough marble beauty hides unseen: To make the music and the beauty, needs The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen. Great Master, touch us with thy skillful hand; Let not the music that is in us die ! Great Sculptor, hew and polish us ; nor let, Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie ! Spare not the stroke ! do with us as thou wilt! Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred; Complete thy purpose, that we may become Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord ! 24 TWO VIEWS OF LIVING. My life is in the sere and yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone. The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is lighted at its blaze — A funeral pile. — Lord Byron. Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met, I own to me's a secret yet. Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,- — Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; — Then steal awaj, give little warning. Choose thine ow.n time; Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. — Mrs. Btrbauld. BEAUTIFUL THINGS. ELLEN P. ALLEKTON. v<^J,.«.^■g.^'> At^tM^ EAUTIFUL faces are those that wear, It matters little if dark or fair — Wholesouled honesty printed there. Beautiful eyes are those that show, Like crystal panes where hearthfires glow. Beautiful thoughts that burn below. Beautiful lips are those whose words Leap from the heart like songs of birds, Yet whose utterance prudence girds. Beautiful hands are those that do Work that is earnest and brave and true, Moment by moment the long day through. Beautiful feet are those that go On kindly ministries to and fro, Down lowliest ways if God wills it so. Beautiful shoulders are those that bear Ceaseless burdens of homely care. With patient grace and daily prayer. Beautiful lives are those that bless, Silent rivers of happiness. Whose hidden fountains but few can guess. 26 BEAUTIFUL THINGS. 27 Beautiful twilight, at set of sun ; Beautiful goal, with race well run ; Beautiful rest, with work well done. Beautiful graves, where grasses creep, Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep Over worn-out hands ; oh, beautiful sleep ! AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. L. HUNT. OW sweet it were, if without feeble fright, Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight. An angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed, —as we shall know forever. Alas! we think not what we daily see About our hearths, angels, that are to be, Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air, — A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its futiire wings. 28 THE ROSE. E. WALLER. Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time on me, That now she knows. When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young. And shnns to have her gi-aces spied. That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. 29 30 GEMS OF POETRY. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired, Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she, The common fate of all things raie May read in thee, How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair. f A lady of Cambridge, England, loaned Waller's poems to H. K. White, who added the following stanza to the above poem; thus illustrating the difference between earthly and heavenly inspiration :) " Yet, though thou fade. From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; And teach the maid That goodness Time's rude hand defies; That Virtue lives when Beauty dies." MAIDEN AND BUTTERFLY. Within the sun-flecked shadows of a forest glade, Seeking for wildwood flowers, a little maid Sang to her happy heart, as to and fro She wandered 'mid the swaying grasses low ; When suddenly a brilliant butterfly Flashed, like a jewel in the sunshine, by And, darting swiftly now that way, now this, Alighted on her lips and stole a kiss, "Forgive me, sweet!" he cried. "I swear to you, I only meant to spy a drop of dew From out the fragrant chalice of these roses bright. But, hovering undecided where to 'light, I saw yoiu- lily-face uplifted here. And thought yoiu- red, red lips were rosebuds, dear!" Tossing her sunny curls, she raised her head. As, with an air of queenly grace, she said: " This once I will forgive ; but, pray, beware 32 GEMS OF POETRY. How often you mistake for blossoms rare A maiden's lips ! " She watched him flutter near. " To think mine, roses, you are welcome, dear. But," with a merry glance, half arch, half shy, " They do not bloom for every butterfly! " " TIRED." MISS HELEN BUENSIDE. "Tired!" Oh yes! so tired, dear. The day has been very long; But shadowy gloaming draweth near, 'Tis time for the even song, I'm ready to go to rest at last, Ready to say " Good night:" The sunset glory darkens fast, To-morrow will bring me light. It has seemed so long since morning-tide. And I have been left so lone. Young smiling faces thronged my side. When the early sunlight shone; But they grew tired long ago, And I saw them sink to rest, With folded hands and brows of snow. On the green earth's mother -breast. Sing once again, "Abide with me," That sweetest evening hymn; And now "Good night!" I cannot see. The light has grown so dim; "Tired!" Ah, yes, so tired, dear, I shall soundly sleep to-night, With never a dream, and never a fear To wake in the morning light. UNHEEDED PSALMS. God hath His solitudes, unpeopled yet, Save by the peaceful life of bird and flower, Where, since the world's foundation, He hath set The hiding of His power. Year after year His rains make fresh and green Lone wastes of prairies, where, as daylight goes, Legions of bright-hued blossoms all unseen Their carven petals close. Year after year unnumbered forest leaves Expand and darken to their perfect prime ; Each smallest groAvth its destiny achieves In His appointed time. Amid the strong recesses of the hills. Fixed by His word, immutable and calm. The murmuring river all the silence fills With its unheeded psalm. From deep to deep the floods lift up their voice. Because His hand hath measured them of old; The far outgoings of the morn rejoice His wonders to unfold. 33 34 GEMS OF POETRY. The smallest cloudlet wrecked in distant storms, That wanders homeless through the summer skies, Is reckoned in His purposes, and forms One of His argosies. Where the perpetual mountains patient wait, Girded with purity before His throne. Keeping from age to age inviolate Their everlasting crown; Where the long- gathering waves of ocean break With ceaseless music o'er untrodden strands, From isles that day by day in silence wake, From earth's remotest lands. The anthem of His praise shall uttered be ; All works created on His name shall call, And laud, and bless His holy name, for He Hath pleasure in them all. LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. J. H. NEWMAN. Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on; The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on. Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on; I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on. I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will: remember not past years! So long Thy power hath blest me^ sure it still Will lead me on O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone, And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost aw^hile Meanwhile, along the narrow, rugged path Thyself hast trod. Lead, Savior, lead me home in childlike faith, Home to my God, To rest forever after earthly strife. In the calm light of everlasting life. 35 THE TWO AGES. H. S. LEIGH, Folks were happy as days were long, In the old Arcadian times: When life seemed only a dance and song In the sweetest of all sweet climes. Our world grows bigger, and stage by stage, As the pitiless years have rolled. We've quite forgotten the Golden Age, And come to the Age of Gold. Time went by in a sheepish way Upon Thessaly's plains of yore. In the nineteenth century lambs at play Mean mutton, and nothing more. Our swains at present are far too sage To live as one lived of old: So they couple the crook of the Golden Age With a hook in the Age of Gold. From Corydon's reed the mountains round Heard news of his latest flame; And Tityrus made the woods resound With echoes of Daphne's name. They kindly left us a lasting guage Of their musical art, we're told: 36 GEMS OF POETRY. 37 And the Pandean pipe of tJie Golden Age Brings mirth to the Age of Gold. Dwellers in hnts and in marble hall — From shepherdess up to queen — Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawl, And nothing for crinoline. But now simplicity's not the rage, And it's funny to think how cold The dress they wore in the Golden Age Would seem in the Age of Gold. Electric telegraphs, printing, gas, Telephones, balloons and steam, Are little events that have come to pass Since the days of the old regime; And in spite of Lempriere's dazzling page, I'd give — though it might seem bold — A hundred years of the Golden Age For a year of the Age of Gold. WEAKY, LONELY, RESTLESS, HOMELESS. FATHER RYAN. Weary hearts! weary hearts! by cares of life oppressed, Ye are wandering in the shadows, ye are sighing for the rest; There is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleak below, And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to woe. Weary hearts! God is rest. Lonely hearts! lonely hearts! 'tis but a land of grief; Ye are pining for repose, ye are longing for relief; What the world hath never given, kneel and ask of God above, And your grief shall turn to gladness if you lean upon His love. Lonely hearts! God is love. Restless hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling night and day, And the flowers of life, all withered, leave but thorns along your way; Ye are waiting, ye are waiting till your toilings here shall cease, And your ever-restless throbbing is a sad, sad prayer for peace. Restless hearts! God is peace. 38 WEAKY, LONELY, KESTLESS, HOMELESS. 39 Broken hearts! broken hearts ! ye are desolate and lone, And low voices from the past o'er your present ruins moan; In the sweetest of your pleasiu-es there was bitterest alloy, And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of your joy- Broken hearts! God is joy. Homeless hearts! homeless hearts! through the dreary, dreary years. Ye are lonely, lonely wanderers, and your way is wet with tears ; In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam. Ye look away from earthland, and ye murmur, " Where is Home?" Homeless hearts! God is home. V A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A. CUNNINGHAM. WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast, — And bends the gallant mast, my boys. While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on our lee. O for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the swelling breeze, And white waves heaving high, — The white waves heaving high, my lads. The good ship tight and free ; The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There's a tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark! the music, mariners, The wind is wak'ning loud, — The wind is wak'ning loud, my boys. The lightning flashes free; The hollow oak our palace is. Our heritage the sea. 40 A PETITION TO TIME. B. COENWALL. Touch US gently, Time ! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,— as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream ! Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, and children three, — (One is lost,-an angel fled To the azure overhead !) Touch us gently, Time ! We've not proud nor soaring wings; Our ambition, our content. Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are we, O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime ; — Touch us gently, gentle Time ! N. THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS. J. W. BILEY. HE touches of her hands are like the fall Of velvet snowflakes ; like the touch of down The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall; The flossy fondlings of the thistle -wisp Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown The blighting frost has turned from green to crisp. Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, The touches of her hands, and the delight— The touches of her Hands ! The touches of her hands are like the dew That falls so softly down no one e'er knew The touch thereof save to lovers like to one Astray in lights where ranged Endymion. Oh, rarely soft, the touches of her hands, As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands ; Or pulse of dying fay ; or fairy sighs ; Or — in between the midnight and the dawn, "When long unrest and tears and fears are gone — Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. T. CAMPBELL. Our bugles sang truce, — for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; And thousands had siink on the ground over-power'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf- scaring fagot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought fi'om the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn -reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine- cup, and fondly I swore. From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart. i6 GEMS OF POETRY. "Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn;" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; — But sorrow return' d with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. ■•X THE MOTHER'S CHARGE. "Behold,! commit my daughter unto thee of special trust. Precious and lovely, I yield her to thee! Take her, the gem of thy dwelling to be! She who was ever my solace and pride Grlides from my bosom to cling to thy side. Guard her with care, which must never decline ; Make her thy day-star — she long hath been mine; Lonely henceforth is my desolate lot, What is the casket where the jewel is not ? Take her and pray that thine arm may be strong. Safely to shield her from danger and wrong, Be to her all that her heart hath portrayed, Then o'er thy path there will gather no shade. Now she doth love thee as one without spot — Dreams of no sorrow to darken her lot — Joyful, yet tearful, I yield her to thee; Take her, the light of thy dwelling to be! THE BRIGHT SIDE. MRS. M. A. KIDDEK. There is many a rest on the road of life, If we only would stop to take it; And many a tone from the better land, If the querulous heart would wake it. To the sunny soul that is full of hope, And whose beautiful trust never faileth. The gi-ass is green, and the flowers are bright, Though the Wintry storm prevaileth. Better to hope, though the clouds hang low, And to keep the eyes still lifted; For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through, When the ominous clouds are rifted. There was never a night without a day, Nor an evening without a morning; And the dar"kesx hour, the proverb goes. Is just before the dawning. There is many a gem in the path of life. Which we pass in our idle pleasure, That is richer far than the jewelled crown, Or the miser's hoarded treasure-, It may be the love of a little child. Or a mother's prayer to heaven, Or only a beggar's grateful thanks For a cup of water given. 48 GEMS OF POETRY. Better to weave in the web of life A bright and golden filling, And to do God's will with a ready heart, And hands that are swift and willing, Than to sn^p the delicate silver threads Of our curious lives asunder, And then blame heaven for the tangled ends. And sit to grieve and wonder. COMFORT. If there should come a time as well there may, When sudden tribulation smites thine heart, And thou dost come to me for help, and stay, And comfort — how shall I perform my part ? How shall I make my heart a resting-place, A shelter safe for thee when terrors smite ? How shall I bring the sunshine to thy face, And dry thy tears in bitter woes' despite ? How shall I win strength to keep my voice, Steady and firm, although I hear thy sobs ? How shall I bid thy fainting soul rejoice. Nor mar the counsel of mine own heart-throbs ? Love, my love, teaches me a certain way, So, if the dark hour comes, I am thy stay. I must live higher, neai'est the reach Of angels in their blessed truthfulness, Learn their usefulness, ere I can teach Content to thee whom I would greatly bless. Ah, me ! what woe were mine if thou should'st come. Troubled, but trusting unto me for aid. And I should meet thee, powerless and dumb, Willing to help thee, but confused, afi-aid ? It shall not happen thus, for I will rise, God helping me, to higher lite, and gain 49 4 50 GEMS OF POETRY Courage and strength to thee counsel wise. And deeper love to bless thee in thy paiia. Fear not, dear love, thy trial hour shall be The dearest bond between my heart and thee LITTLE BROWN HANDS. MARY H. KROUT. [The following poem, written by Mary H. Krout, of Crawfords- ville, Ind., ten years ago, when its author was in her thirteenth year, is one of the most beautiful and expressive ever penned in the English language, and should find a place throughout the length and breadth of America wherever the dignity of labor is recognized:] They drive home the cows from the pasture, Up through the long, shady lane, Where the qiiail whistles loud in the wheat field, That is yellow with ripening grain. They find, in the thick waving grasses, Where the scarlet- lipped strawberry grows, They gather the earliest snowdrops. And the first crimson buds of the rose. They toss the hay in the meadow, They gather the elder bloom white, They find where the dusky grapes purple In the soft tinted October light. They know where the apples hang ripest, And are sweeter than Italy's wines; They know where the fruit hangs the thickest. On the long, thorny blackberry vines. They gather the delicate seaweeds, 51 52 GEMS OF POETRY. And build tiny castles of sand : They pick up the beau.tiful sea shells- Fairy barks that have drifted to land. They wave from the tall, rocking tree tops, "Where the Oriole's hammock nest swings, And at night time are folded in slumber By a song that a fond mother sings. Those who toil bravely are strongest; The humble and poor become great: And from those brown -handed children Shall grow mighty rulers of state. The pen of the author and statesman, The noble and wise of the land, The sword and chisel and palette Shall be held in the little brown hand. " No children run to lisp their sire's retiirn,^^ Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 54 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. THOMAS GRAY. HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds. Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings hill the distant folds: Save that, from yonder ivy- mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 55 56 GEMS OF POETRY. The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them np more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await alike the inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud! impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault. The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honor's voices ])rovoke the silent dust. Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 57 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress' d their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The. dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, A.nd waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute ingloriou^lNIilton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood The applause of listening senates to command. The threats of pain and ruin to despise. To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growi ng virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of Mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuoiis Shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 58 . GEMS OF POETEY. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester' d vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect. Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt l:)y the unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb Forjjptfulness a prey. This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind/ On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires : E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonor'd dead. Dost in these lines their ai'tless tale relate. If chance, by lonely Contemplation lead, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. Haply some hoary- headed swain may say, " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn. Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 59 " There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic root so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch. And pore upt)n the brook that babbles by. " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross' d in hopeless love. " One morn I raiss'd him on the accustom' d hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he: ''The next, with dirges due, in sad array. Slow through the churchway-path we saw him borne. Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:" THE EPITAPH. Here rest's his head upon the lap of Earth, A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frown' d not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to misery all he had — a tear; He gain'd from Heaven — 'twas all he wish'd — a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode. 60 GEMS OF POETRY. (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God. SOMETIME. MRS, MAY RILEY SMITH. Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned, And sun and stars forevermore have set. The things which our weak judgment here had spurred., The things o'er which we grieved with lashes weti Will flash before us out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans were right, And how what seemed reproof was love most true And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, God's plans go on as best for you and me; How, when we called, he heeded not our cry, Because his wisdom to the end covild see. And even as prudent parents disallow Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping fi'om us now Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine, We find the wormwood and rebel and shrink. Be sm'e a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this portion for our lips to di'ink. And if some friend we love is lying low. Where human kisses cannot reach his face, 62 GEMS OF POETRY Oh, do not blame the loving Father so. But wear your sorrow with obedient grace. And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friend, And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life. And stand within and all God's working see. We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mysteiy could find a key ! But not to-d:iy. Then be content, poor heart! God's plans, like lilies, pure and white, unfold; We must not tear the close- shut leaves apart. Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. And if, through patient toil, we reach the land AVhore tired feet, with sandals loose, may rest. When we shall clearly know and understand — I think that we will say, " God knew the best!" REST. [The following lines were found under the pillow of a soldier lying dead in a hospital near Port Royal, South Carolina. We have never, we believe, seen verses more true and touching. They are a new and perfect expression of world-wide feeling:] I lay me down to sleep, with little thought of care, Whether waking find me here, or there. A bowing, burdened head, that only asks to rest. Unquestioning, upon a loving breast. My good right hand forgets its cunning now •, To march the weary march I know not how. I am not eager, bold, nor strong — all that is past, I'm ready now to die, at last, at last. My half day's work is done, and this is all my part: I give a patient God my patient heart, And grasp his banner still, though all its blue be dim. These stripes, no less than stars, lead after Him. 63 •X. THE VALLEY OF SILENCE. FATHER KYAN. WALK down the Valley of Silence Down the dim, voiceless valley alone ; And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me — save God's and my own, And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown. Long ago was I weary of voices, Whose music my heart could not win ; Long ago was I weary of noises, That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places. Where I met but the human and sin. And still I pined for the perfect, And still found the false with the true, I sought mid the human for heaven, But caught a mere glimpse of the blue; I wept as the clouds of the world veiled Even that glimpse from my view. I toiled on heart-tired of the human, I moaned mid the mazes of men, 64 THE VALLEY OE SILENCE. 65 Till I kiiolt, long ago, at au Altar, And hoard a Voice call nie; since theu I walk down the Valley of Silence, That lies far beyond mortal ken. Do yon ask what I found in the Valley ? 'Tis my trysting jilace with the Divine. When I fell at the feet of the Holy, And about me the Voice said, "Be Mine," There arose from the dei)ths of my spirit. An echo, "My heart shall be Thine." Do you ask how I live in the Valley ? I weep, and I dream, and I pray: But my tears are as sweet as the dew drops, That fall on the roses of May; And my prayer like a perfume from censer Ascondeth to God night and day. In the hush of the Valley of Silence, I di-eam all the songs that I sing; And the music floats down the dim valley. Till each finds a word for a wino". That to men, like the doves of the deluge, The message of Peace they may bring. But far out on the deep there are billows, That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the Silence, That never shall float into speech; And I have had dreams in the Valley, Too lofty for language to reach. And I have seen forms in the Valley, Ah, me! how my s})irit was stirred; And they wear holy veils on their faces, 66 GEMS OF POETKY. Their footsteps can scarcely be heard They jiass through the Valley like virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word. Do you a§k me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by care ? It lieth afar between Mountains, And God and His angels are there; And one is the dark Mount of Sorrow, The other the bright Mount of Prayer. ' Some time," we say, and turn our eyes Toward the far hills of Paradise, Some day, some time, a sweet new rest Shall blossom, flower-like in each breast. Some time, some day our eyes shall see The faces kept in memory; Some day their hands shall clasp our hands, Just over in the morning lands. Some day our ears shall hear the song Of triumph over sin and wi'ong. Some time, some time, but ah! not yet! Still we will wait and not forget. That " some time all these things shall be, And rest be given to you and me." So let \\3 wait, though years move slow. That glad " some time" will come, we know. ^v^^ ^. BEYOND. HENRY BURTON. Never a word is said But it trembles in the air, And the truant voice is sped, To vibrate everywhere; And perliaps far off in eternal years The echo may ring upon our ears. Never are kind acts done To wipe the weeping eyes, But like the flashes of the sun, They signal to the skies; And up above the angels read How Ave have helped the sorer need. Never a day is given. But it tones the after years. And it carries up to heaven Its sunshine or its tears; While the to-morrows stand and wait, The silent mutes by the outer gate. There is no end to the sky. And the stars are everywhere, And time is eternity. And the here is over there ; For the common deeds of the common day Are ringing bells in the far-away. 6T THE BEAUTIFUL CITY. J. W. RILEY. HE Beautiful City ! Forever Its rapturous praises resound, Aud we fain would behold it — but neA'^er A glimpse of its gloiy is foiind. We slacken our lips at the tender White breasts of our mothers to hear Of its marvelous beauty and splendor ; — We see — but the gleam of a tear ! Yet never the story may tire us — First graven in symbols of stone — Rewritten on scrolls of papyrus, And parchment, and scattered and blov.n By the winds of the tongues of all nations, Like a litter of leaves wildly whirled Down the rack of a hundred translations, From the earliest lisp of the world We compass the earth and the ocean From the Orient's uttermost light, To where the last ripple in motion Lips hem of the skirt of the night, — But The Beautiful City evades us — No spire of it glints in the sun — No glad- bannered battlement shades us When all our long journey is done. THE BEAUTIFUL OITy. Where lies it ? We question and listen ; We lean from the mountain, or mast, And see but dull earth, or the glisten Of seas inconceivably vast : The dust of the one blurs our vision — The glare of the other our brain, Nor city nor island elysian In all of the land or the main ! We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders Of organs tumultuous roll. And the longing heart listens and wonders. And the eyes look aloft from the soul. But the chanson grows fainter and fainter. Swoons wholly away and is dead ; And our eyes only reach where the painter Has dabbled a saint overhead. The Beautiful City ! O mortal, Fare hopefully on in thy quest. Pass down through the green grassy portal That leads to the valley of rest, There first passed the One who, in pity Of all thy great yearning, awaits To point out the Beautiful City, And loosen the trump at the gates EXAMPLE. J. KEBI.E. We scatter seeds with careless hand, And dream we ne'er shall see them more- But foi a thousand years Their fruit appears, In weeds that mar the land Or healthful store. In deeds we do, the words we say. Into still air they seem to fleet; We count them ever past; But they shall last — In the dread judgment they And we shall meet. I charge thee by the years gone by, For the love of brethren dear, Keep, then, the one true way In work and play. Lest in the world their cry Of woe thou hear. " No more shall the war-cry sever." THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. F. M. FINCH. Y the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the gi-ave grass quiver Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; — Under the scd and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day • Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat. All with the liattle -blood gory. In the dusk of eternity meet : — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day; — Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovii]g]y laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe ; — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day; 73 74 GEMS OP POETET. Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies,the Gray So with an equal splendor The m.orning sun-rays fall, With a touch, impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all ; — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day; — 'Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur f alleth The cooling drip of the rain; — Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the Judgment day; — Wet with the rain, the Blue,- Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading. No braver battle was won; — Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the Judgment day-,— Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. OUR OWN. 75 Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day ; — Love and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray. OUR OWN. MRS. M. E. SANGSTER. If I had known in the morning, How wearily all the day The words unkind would trouble my mind, I said when you went away, I had been more careful, darling. Nor given you needless pain: But we vex our own with look and tone We might never take back again. For though in the quiet evening You may give me the kiss of peace, Yet it might be that never for me The pain of the heart should cease. How many go forth in the morning That never come home at night. And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken, That sorrow can ne'er set right. Wo have careful thoughts for the stranger, And for the sometime guest. But oft for oui- own the bitter tone. Though we love our own the best. Ah! lips with the curve impatient, Ah! brow with a look of scorn, 'Twere a cruel fate, were the night too late, To undo the work of morn. THE CUP BEAEER. EMILIE CLARE. In olden time there lived a king For wit and wisdom much renowned — In feasting aiid in reveling He far surpassed all kings around. Now it so happened, on a time When the great lords of earth had met, To feast o'er meats, and fume o'er wine, It needed still one person yet, — One all important personage, To bear the cup with lordly grace; When lo, a youth of tender age Said modestly, "I'll take his place." Well pleased, the king smiles a consent, The youth the cup and napkin bore. And gracefully his footsteps bent To those who knightly honors wore, " Well done," was passed from lip to lip! " My son," his father said, "this thing Was nobly done, yet you to sip Forgot, before you gave your king." THE CUP BEARER. 77 "Nay, I forgot no custom old, Bat coiled within the cup, I saw A poisonous serpent, fold on fold, And that was why I shunned the law." "A serpent, child! and poisonous? — why! — How can you speak so strange and wild?" " I saw the poisonous serpent nigh. And shunned it," said the timid child. " Aye! shunned it, for I saw the power On those who drank but yesterday, In less by far, than one short hour Their wit and wisdom fled away. " Some tried to dance, and some to sing, And some to walk as vainly tried. While you, forgetful you were king. Mounted a broom-stick for a ride." ei"i9 ■Sv, I'D MOURN THE HOPES. TOM MOORE. I'd mourn the hopes that leave me, If thy smiles had left me too ; I'd weeD when friends deceive me, Hadst thou been like them untrue. But while I've thee before me, With heart so warm, and eyes so bright, No clouds can linger o'er me. That smile turns them all to light. 'Tis not in fate to harm me, While fate leaves thy love to me; 'Tis not in joy to charm me, Unless joy be shar'd with thee. One minute's dream about thee Were worth a long and endless year Of waking bliss without thee, My own love, my only dear ! And, though the hope be gone, love, That long sparkled o'er our way. Oh! we shall journey on, love. More safely, without its ray; 78 " i'd mourn the hopes." 79 Far better light shall win me, Along the path I've yet to roam; The mind, that burns within me, And pure smiles from thee at home. Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveler, at first goes out He feels awhile benighted And looks round in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless star-light on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light wliich heaven sheds ! THE OLD CHURCH BELL. W. H. SPARKS. [The following note accompanied the copy of the poem touud among Colonel Spark's paper!*, says the Atlanta Const itutio)i : '■ After an absence of thirty years, I visited my native village, Eatonton, Putnam county, Ga., and sojourned for a, week in the hospitable home of my boyhood's friend, Edmund Reid. On Sabbath morning, whilst alone in my bed-room, the old church bell commenced to ring. My heart was touched, and tears floodpd my eyes. The tones were familiar as though I had heard them every Sunday daring all that lapse of intervening time. With my pencil I wrote these lines in a small memorandum book which I carried in my pocket : "] Ring on, ring on, sweet Sabbath bell; Thy mellow tones I love to hear, I was a boy, when first they fell In melody upon mine ear; In those dear days, long past and gone, When sporting here in boyish glee, The magic of thy Sabbath tone Awoke emotions deep in me. Long years have gone and I have strayed Out o'er the world, far, far away. But thy dear tones have round me played On every lovely Sabbath day. THE OLD CHU CII BELL. 81 When strolling o'er the mighty plains, Spread widely in the unpeopled West, Each Sabbath morn I've iieard thy strains Tolling the welcome day of rest. Upon the rocky mountain crest. Where Christian feet have never trod, In the deep bosom of the West I've thought of thee and worshiped God; Ring on, sweet bell! I've come again To hear thy cherished call to prayer. There's less of pleasure, now, than pain In those dear tones which fill my ear. Ring on, ring on, dear bell, ring on! Once more I've come with whitened head To hear thee toll. The sounds are gone! And e'er this Sabbath day has sped, I shall be gone, and may no more Give ear to thee, sweet Sabbath bell ! Dear church and bell, so loved of yore. And childhood's happy home, farewell! — Eatonton, Ga-, May 18, 1S56. V SAD. A SHORT TALE IN SHORT WORDS. W. s. r. ID you hear that sound of woe, Ring out on the still night air ? Did you see the mad fiend's blow Fall on her who knelt in prayer ? Did yoii hear the last sad moan, As that fair one's soul was freed. And list in vain to hear a groan Or sigh from him who did the deed ? Ah, see that smile of ioy and rest. Now as she draws her last short breath. That to her still white face is prest, E'en while she tastes the cup of death. I would not have you hear the curse That from this base man's lips there fell, Nor go to see the poor lone hearse And grave of her with whom all's well — But turn now to a scene more fair. And see those two so blithe and gay; 82 SAD. He twines a rose wi'eath in her hau*, She smiles on him through all the day. He plights his love, wealth, dreams of bliss. And she pure love, fair hand, leal heart. Their vows are sealed with faith's sweet kiss, A high trust wrought by no rude art. They wed; and as the years sped on, A dark cloud came and o'er them hung; Their vows were hid, their love was gone, And in mute woe joy's knell was rung. The Fiend of Drink — the curse and foe Of man through all the flights of time — Stole in and laid the strong youth low; He drank, and this was all his crime. The deeds of wrong which he has done, All came fi'om this his first great sin, And all his once grand traits had won Was lost in dark wild strife and din ; Rum is the cause of all the shame That holds him now with bands of steel, And when the stern Seer laid a claim Oh what sharp pain his wife did feel ! But she is fi'eed from all her woes AVhile he must still go down and down Through all the shades of crime's keen throes He sought a ban and she a crown. The years to come will tell the tale — Frail woi'ds cannot speak all the truth, When Death shall come on steed so pale. To take with him this sin- wild youth. 83 84 GEMS OF POETKY. My brave young boys take heed I pray, And walk not in this black crime's paili, Walk on that high and grand straight way, Which shuns the place of fire and wrath. Ye bright, hopes of the yet to come, With truth now let your feet be shod, Strive for that blest and dear good home, In the grand realms of our God. ^''^im» DRIFTING. OALISTA L. GRANT. I stand by the river, so peacefuljy shining, Beyond is the city I'm yearning to see; I wait for the summons that's coming to me! Hold me closer, my darling, and feel no repining, We know that the p".re love our hearts now entwining, Reaching over the river, immortal will be! Thou fair, golden city, soon, soon, I shall find me Thy clear jasper walls and thy pearl gates within, Where never can enter earth's bondage and sin! AH the world's care and pain I shall leave far behind me, No more can my prison chains trammel and bind me, My crown of rejoicing at last I shall win. For I'm dying, you say, though it seems more like dreaming, So slowly the life-tide is ebbing away, — So slowly is fading life's lingering ray! So long all of earth hath been idle seeming, So long, oh, so long, have I watched for the gleaming Of the pni'e gates that open to Heaven's pertect day. Through the vine -curtained window the sunlight is sifting, 85 86 GEMS OF POETRY. On the snow of the mountains the purple mist lies; But they fade from my view, as the death -shadows rise, And out from the earth-life my lone bark is drifting, Through the mist and the shadow, but angels are lifting, With invisible fingers, the gates of the skies ! A FAREWELL Farewell ! since never more for thee The siin comes up our eastern skies, Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. There are who for thy last, long sleep Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, Shall weep because thou canst not weep, And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. Sad thrift of love! the loving breast On which the aching head was thrown, Gave up the weary head to rest. But kept the aching for its own. FAITH. VRANCES AITNE EEMBLE. Better trust all and be deceived, And weep that trust and that deceiving, Than doubt one heart that if believed Had blessed one's life with true believing. 0, in this mocking world too fast The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; Better be cheated to the last Than lose the blessed hope of truth. 87 X BED. Our sweetest and most bitter hours are thine; Thou by the weary frame art fondly pressed, Wliich, grateful, blesses its most welcome shrine, While cmses thee, pale sickness' sad unrest. 'Tis here the blushing bride receives her lord; 'Tis here the mother first beholds her child; 'Tis here death snaps affection's fondest cord, ■ And changes sunny bliss to anguish wild; 'Tis here the good man, pondering on his fate, Beholds that bed which this doth typefy. Made by the sexton, his frail form's estate. Where, in long slumber, it shall dreamless lie; And he exults, feeling in that dark sod His robe alone will lie — the rest with God! GILLYFLOWERS. LD-FASHIONED, yes, I know they are, Long exiled from the gay parterre, And banished fi'om the boweis; But not the fairest foreign bloom Can match in beauty or perfnme Those bonnv English flowers. Their velvet petals, fold on fold. In every shade of flaming gold. And richest, deepest brown. Lie close with little leaves between, Of slender shape and tender green. And soft as softest down. On Sabbath mornings long ago. When melody began to flow From out the belfry tower, I used to break from childish talk, To pluck beside the garden walk My mother's Sunday flower. In spi'ing she loved the snow-drop wiiite, In summer time carnations bright, Or roses newly blown; But this the bower she cherished most. And from the goodly garden host 90 GEMS OF POETRY. She chose it for her owb. Ah, mother dear! the In'own flowers wave In sunshine o'er thy quiet <^rave. This morning far away; And I sit lonely here the wliile, Scarce knowing if to sigh or smile Upon their sister spray. I well could sigh, for grief is strong, I well could smile, for love lives long. And conquers even death; But if I smile, or if I sigh, God knoweth well the reason why, And gives me broader faith. Firm faith to feel all good is meant, Sure hope to fill with deep content My most despairing hours ; And oftentimes he deigns to shed Sweet sunshine o'er the path I tread, As on to-day, these flowers. And chose he not a bearer meet, To bring for me those blossoms sweet. A loving little child? And child and bonny blossoms come. Like messages of love and home, O'er waters waste and wild. — All the Year Bound. 92 fill Ph THE BROOK. TENNYSON. "O babbling brook," says Edmund iu his rhyme, " Whence come you ?" and the brook, why not ? replies . COME from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town. And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways. In little sharps and trebles, T bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. 94 GEMS OF POETRY. With many a curve my banks I fret, By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. THE BROOK. 95 I murmui' under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses: I linger by my shingly barsj I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. THKEE CHARACTERISTIC EPITAPHS. [A Frieud who read the epitaph prepared for his own tomb by the late Professor CHfford, was prompted to compose two others, which, with that of the Professor, is given below.] ATHEIST. I was not, and I was conceived: I lived, and did a little work; I am not, and I grieve not. PANTHEIST. A drop of spray cast from the Infinite, I hung an instant there, and threw my ray To make the rainbow. A microcosm I, Reflecting all. Then back I fell again: And though I joerished not, I was no more. CHRISTIAN. God willed: I was. What He had planned I ^vl•ought, That done, He called, and now I dwell with him. V MI BRIDE THAT IS TO BE. J. W. RILEY. SOUL of mine, look out aud see My bride, my bride that is to be! Reach out with mad, impatient hands And draw aside futurity As one might di-aw a veil aside, And so unveil her where she stands Madonna-like and glorified — The Queen of undiscovered lands Of love, to where she beckons me— My bride, my bride that is to be. The shadow of a willow tree That wavers on a garden wall In summer time may never fall In attitude as gracefully As my fair bride that is to be ; Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brown As lightly flutter to the lawn As fall her fairy feet upon The path of love she loiters down. O'er drops of dew she walks, and yet Not one may stain her sandal wet; 96 MY BKIDE THAT IS TO BE. 97 A.nd she might dance upon the way, Nor crush a single drop to spray, So airy-Hke she seems to me — My bride, my bride that is to be. I know not if her eyes are Hght As summer skies, or dark as night — I ouly know that they are dim With mystery. In vain I peer To make their hidden meaning cleat, While o'er their surface, like a tear That ripples to the silken brim, A look of longing seems to swim. All warm and weary -like to me; And then, as suddenly, my sight Is blinded with a smile so bright. Through folded lids I still may see My bride, my bride that is to be. Her face is like a night of June Upon whose brow the crescent moon Hangs pendent in a diadem Of stars, with envy lighting them ; And, like a wild cascade, her hair Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist, Till only through the gleaming mist I seem to see a siren there. With lips of love and melody. And open arms and heaving breast Wherein I fling my soul to rest, The while my heart cries hopelessly For my fair bride that is to be. Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes, My bride has need of no disguise — 98 GEMS OF POETKY. But rather let her come to me In such a form as bent above My pillow when in infancy I knew not anything but love. Oh, let her come from out the lands OfWomanhood — not fairy isles -- And let her come with woman's hands, And woman's eyes of tears and smiles; With woman's hopefulness and grace Of patience lighting up her face; And let her diadem be wrought Of kindly deed and prayerful thought, That ever over all distress May beam the light of cheerfulness : And let her feet be brave to fare The labyrinths of doubt and care, That following, my own may find The path to heaven God designed — Oh, let her come like this to me, My bride, my bride that is to be. la JI / (r> " WHO HAS KOBBED THE OCEAN CAVE ? " JOHN SHAW. AVho has robbed the ocean cave, To tinge thy lips with coral hue ? Who, from India's distant wave, For thee those pearly treasures drew ? Who, from yonder orient sky. Stole the morning of thine eye ? Thousand charms thy form to deck, PVom sea, and earth, and air are torn ; Roses bloom iipon thy cheek, On thy breath their fragrance borne: Guard thy bosom from the day. Lest thy snows should melt away. But one charm remains behind, Which mute earth could ne'er impart; Nor in ocean wilt thou find, Nor in the circling air, a heart: Fairest, wouldst thou i)erfect be, Take, oh take that heart frojn me. 9a A PORTRAIT. Two eyes I see whose sunny blue Rivals the summer skies ; Two lips whose ripe and cherry hue With bright carnation vies; Two rippling waves of gold brown hair, An antique comb to keep them straight ; A sweet and simple face most fair — Pressed on my heart is this portrait. TWO PICTURES. MAKIAN DOUGLASS. An old farm-house, with meadows wide, And sweet with clover on each side; A bright- eyed boy, who looks fi'om out The door with woodbine wreathed about And wishes his one thought all day : " O if I could but fly away From this dull spot the world to see, How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should be!" Amid the city's constant din, A man who round the world has been, Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng, Is thinking, thinking all day long, — ■ () could I only tread once more Tlie field path to the farm house door, The old, green meadows could I see. How hapjiy, happy, happy. How happy I should be! " 101 EXTRACTS FROM BURNS.' r. G. HALLECK. He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen, And moved in manhood as in youth. Pride of his fellow men. Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A hate of tyrant and of knave, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, Of coward and of slave. A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear and would not bow. Were written in his manly eye And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard! His words are driven, Like flower -seeds by the far winds sown, Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, The birds of fame have flown. Praise to the man! A nation stood Beside his cofiin with wet eyes, 102 EXTRACTS FROM "buRNS." THE NATIVITY. 103 Her brave, her beautiful, her good, As when a loved one dies. And still, as on his funeral day. Men stand his cold earth-couch aroiuid, "With the mute homage that we pay To consecrated ground. And consecrated ground it is. The last, the hallowed home of one "Who lives upon all memories, Though with the buried gone. Sucn graves as his are pilgrim- shrines. Shrines to no code or creed confined, — The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind. THE NATIVITY. J. MILTON. This is the month, and this the happy mom, Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Oar great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing. That he our daily forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious form, that light unsufferable, 104 GEMS OF POETEY. And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside, and here with ns to be. Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant-God ':' Hast thou, no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light. And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? See, how from far, upon the eastern road. The star- led wizards haste with odors sweet; Oh, run, prevent them with thy humble ode. And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel-choir. From out his secret altar touch' d with hallow' d fire. A FKEE SHOW. WYOMING KIT. SIT to-uight as audience to my thoughts, Which to a panorama treat my vision Of days long past, some bright, some bearing blots, Some worthy praise ; some calling forth derision ! And as the ever-changing scenes go by — Eliciting applause or condemnation — I bid the canvas halt, as to my eye Appears a sscene which once caused aggravation! It shows me in the bright sunset of youth, Just entering the dawn of manhood's morning, ^Vhen womankind I ranked as pearls of truth. Forever every thought of falsehood scorning! One avalanche of beauty crossed my path. And of my heart susceptible made capture! Ah! who can know the joy I felt, who hath Not likewise had a tussle with love's rapture! I wooed her as did woo the fabled gods — ( At least as I then understood their wooing From what I'd gleaned from books)— but what's the odds? 105 106 GEMS OF POETRY. I wooed her, that's enough — and in my suing I promised her — well, never mind; 'twas more Than I could ever give from shrunken bounty! Enough to stock the very . finest store In this, or any other, high-toned county! My wages vanished like a summer dream. In little odds or ends to suit her fancy; Crloves, handkerchiefs, confections, rides, ice-cream, And price of opera boxes' occupancy! My board bill swelled into enormous size ! My washerwoman threatened dire exposure! And creditors — confound 'em — swarmed like flies. And hinted at a possible disclosure! And yet, my darling's smiles at all times drove Away the morbid shade these scenes threw o'er me The very pangs of sulphurdom, by Jove! Would lose their terror with her smiles before me. At last she named the happy, joyous day When I should claim her for my own, own treasure But just before the night she ran away With clerk of a hotel, a gent of leisure ! Ten years have passed. I saw her yesterday Beneath a basketful of dirty linen! She takes in washing now! alack-a-day! And 'pon my soul I couldn't keep from grinnin' To see that form which once was lithe and fair, Now weighing some two hundred pounds, or over! And seven children, all with oreide hair. Now greet her with the sacred name of " muvver! " A FREE SHOW.- "till DEATH US PART." 107 Her husbaiul tumblod from his lofty grade Aiul '• soaked " liis diamond( ?) pin for just a dollar, With which he bought a bootblack's stock in trade And went in partnership with gent of color! His works now shine — from others' fancy boots! Alas! what ending to love's glorious summer! Bright dream of glory plucked out by the roots ! ^Vho? me? — ah — um — well, I'm a genteel bummer TILL DEATH US PART." DEAN STANLEY. " Till death us part," So speaks the heart, When each to each repeats the words of doom; Thro' blessing, and thro' ciirse, For better and for worse. We will be one till the dread hour shall come. Life, with its myriad grasp, Our yearning souls shall clasp. By ceaseless love and still expectant wonder, In bonds that shall endure, Indissolubly sure. Till God in death shall part our paths asunder. Till Death us join, O voice yet more divine! That to the broken heart breathes hope sublime; 108 GEMS OF POETRY. Thro' lonely hours And shattered powers We still are one, despite of change and time. Death, with his healing hand. Shall once more knit the band Which needs but that one link which none may sever; Till, thro' the Only Good, Heard, felt and understood. Our life in God shall make us one forever. 110 GEMS OF POETRY. " A shadowy landscape dipp'd in gold." SUNSET WITH CLOUDS. HE earth grows dark about me, But heaven shines clear above, As daylight slowly melts away With the crimson light I love; And clouds, like floating shadows Of every form and hue, Hover around his dying couch. And blush a bright adieu. Like fiery forms of angels, They throng around the sun — Courtiers that on their monarch wait, Until his course is run; from him they take their glory; His honor they uphold; And trail their flowing garments forth. Of purple, green and gold. O bliss to gaze upon them. From this commanding hill-, And drink the spirit of the hour, ^Vhile all around is still ; "While distant skies are opening And stretching far away. A shadowy landscape dipi)M in ":